


Breathe Again

by ARayOfAngst



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Batman is not a good dad, Bruce Wayne isn't much better, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Like industrial strength angst, Major character death mentioned cause Jason, Post RHATO 25, Teen and Up rating for Jason's swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARayOfAngst/pseuds/ARayOfAngst
Summary: Jason introspects about his existence post RHATO #25.Very angsty with almost zero comfort.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	Breathe Again

**Author's Note:**

> If the username and tags haven't been a massive tip-off, this is a more explicit warning. This was a meander through Jason's head right before he comes back to Gotham after Rhato 25#. He is not in a good place mentally and emotionally. There are mentions of PTSD, depression, self-loathing, homelessness, and rather graphic mentions of injuries. Mostly canon-compliant in terms of events, but the characterisation is a toss-up as it usually is with comics. Mostly a lot of purple prose, 'cause fanfiction is meant for self-indulgence.

_ The burn of a cigarette on the palest of skins... the singeing of fear through gasses green... the burning of a warehouse in the stifling heat... a box of wood, as cold as a corpse... a pool of sins guarded by the Demons corps. _

The breath on his lips was stale and rasping. The stagnant air reminiscent of all of his worst nightmares (memories). Jason's relationship with the very air in his lungs was as flighty as the bird whose colours he had once donned. He'd spent most of his life clawing his way through the soot to catch a draught of clean air. But more fool he, 'cause there was no clean air in Gotham, and he a true born son of her's could never expel her taint from his pulmonary veins. 

The taste of fresh air in the woods of Bristol had been as cheese to a rat on a trap. And this little street rat had eaten all of the cheese. You'd think the lesson would take the first few times when he'd had to flee with his tail between his legs (and a hand over his shredded neck). Or when he once again ran from the burning wreckage that was his relationship with Bruce in the hot desert sands of Ethiopia, where the Batman himself lit the match beneath his skin this time around. 

But no. His teachers at Gotham Academy, the socialites at the galas, even the gossip rags had all pegged him right. He was the only one who hadn't seen it. He's always been a fucking charity case; looking from the outside in, trying to fit in where he's not needed or wanted. A burden on those around him. A slow fucking learner that was never taught the right rules, but got a fast pass to the upper grades and echelons of society through the Wayne name, and wouldn't let go, like the parasite he's always been.

And, true to form he'd gone crawling back. Willing to compromise on his ideals, his jobs, his fucking life, to just be able to sit at the table and feed on the scraps that were handed to him. The scraps of attention, of offhanded affection, like a shoulder clap or a brush of shoulders without the accompanying flinch, a hug from Alfred every time he worked up the energy to visit the cave. Never the manor. He'd burned down that bridge to cinders and Bruce had pissed over the ashes. But, even so, he couldn't goddam let go. Gave over the strings to what was left of his heart for even a taste of the air that the others seemed to thrive off of.

He spent three years working on regaining the family's trust. Playing nice with the other kids. Following Bruce's rules in Gotham. Working from his shitty underground bunker to better sell his outlaw reputation to gather intel. Having virtually no life outside of his vigilante persona cause he was more useful dead than he was alive. Probably the aptest description of himself. He'd always been more useful to Batman dead than he was alive. Whether as an example for all the aspiring Robins as to what not to do, or a weapon that didn't have a name and thus was easily publicly disowned and disavowed when things went to shit like they often did around him. It had always been a matter of when and not if. 

So as usual, Jason Todd, blind as the mice that used to live in the dumpster next to the cardboard box he'd lived out of for three months, didn't see his supposed father coming for him as he watched his world burn down around him. He once again suffocated, as Batman crushed three ribs and broke his arm. A perforated lung, a broken clavicle, bruised kidneys and an assortment of bruises and sprains that would paint him like a canvas for the next few months. His face a wash of red from the cuts that littered his scalp and face from the debris of his helmet. digging into his throat further, as he was dragged across the concrete like a broken toy that had long outlived its value. 

Gasping for air, his vision spotty, he was suddenly dropped. A figure in red wrapped him in his arms, the quick and assured calloused hands of his one last pillar of support patching him up on the field, so that he could breathe easier until they could get to actual medical care. As the smog of Gotham once again reached his lungs, he finally passed out. He didn't remember the journey to Kori's island, but he remembered in excruciating detail, the pain that he fought through day and night. Healing from injuries that an irate father had rained down upon him in righteous fury. For being a disappointment. Always a disappointment. It didn't matter whether he'd actually broken the rules or not. All that mattered was Batman's pristine image, and Jason would never be more important than that. He'd chosen his actions, and he deserved to pay the price. But, why was it that the price he had to pay was always dearer than what even the Joker had to pay for _killing_ him. 

* * *

Breathing is an involuntary action that perpetrated life on Jason. He'd never wanted it back. Didn't want it now. For what was the point in breathing when you had no one to breathe for. His city, his friends, his 'family', _R_ _oy._ He had spent every breath during both his lives for and on others, whether it was seeking someone's approval or the validation of someone acknowledging his existence without the threat of violence. But as usual, he'd been left behind like so much extra baggage that no one wanted to pay for. Unnecessary, a waste of space and air. 

He'd borrowed and stolen the air in his lungs and the life in his veins. Like a campfire that had been put out shoddily, his existence continued to burn in the embers waiting for a gust of wind to feed it. A new cause, a new vengeance, a better life, a chance to stop others from burning out like he once had. This had always been how he got through the days. Whether he was living on the cold cobbled streets of Crime Alley, or in the barracks of the League of Shadows. The embers of hope burned eternally. The fire that Ducra had seen in him, that raged against a world that didn't need him, let alone want him.

He wandered from nowhere to nowhere, camping out in the fields and back-alleys of Hicksville, USA. It was both nostalgic and deeply depressing. Still that useless child at his core. Couldn't keep those who mattered to him alive and now was barely holding himself together. But as he lay despondent on the nth torn shady mattress in even shadier motels, he knew that this time there was no gleaming black chariot with its very own dark knight coming to save him. So, after a countless amount of nights spent wallowing in his own misery, he got up off of his ass, stole another breath and kept living. Crime Alley had beaten survival at any cost into his very soul, and if the fucking crowbar, a grave, and a bloody batarang hadn't managed to pry it out, nothing would. A change in appearance, a change of cause, a change of who he fucking was.

Robin may have died once, but he'd be damned if he died with the name of another man this time around. Jason Todd may never have been a good soldier or any kind of son. But, while he still drew breath, he would not give up his identity again. Screw the rest of them, he'd bring himself back from the dead if he has to. He didn't know why he still kept breathing. Why he still spread his poison into the very air that kept him alive, infecting everyone around him. But, he would burn on as long as the fuel lasted, and the air in his lungs kept feeding it; and where better to feed the beast than the city that was the best parent he had ever known. 

**Author's Note:**

> I would apologise for the hurt, but I'm not really sorry. Jason is my vehicle for working through bad emotions, so I make him suffer more than the boy should. Well, not much more than DC does anyway.  
> Also, this is unbetaed and very fleetingly edited and all mistakes are my own.


End file.
